Oh, my beloved King, in the bustling market of the ancient city, a humble young porter lingered among the crowds of merchants and buyers, his eyes weary from seeking work that never came. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the stalls, when a figure approached. The young woman was shrouded in layers of dark silk, veiled so completely that only the faintest outline of her form could be discerned beneath the fabric. A narrow slit revealed a glint of eyes, dark and mysterious. Her voice was soft and refined, like a whisper. She presented herself as Zara, the provider, as she asked him to carry her purchases while she led him on an extravagant spree, piling his crate with fine wines, exotic fruits, fragrant flowers, delicate sweets, and other luxuries, each payment made with a flash of gold dinars.
They arrived at a grand mansion, isolated at the edge of the city, its spacious courtyard framed by towering columns of alabaster that loomed like silent sentinels. Zara knocked softly, and the door swung open with a strange creak to reveal another breathtaking beauty, Sophia, the portress. Her gaze, sharp yet inviting, assessed the porter as he stood, nearly faltering under his load, awestruck by her presence. Sophia’s eyes lingered on him, as if weighing his worth to cross their threshold, a silent judgment that stirred both his nerves and his desire. The heavy gates closed behind them without a sound.
A third woman, Amira, the mistress of the house, radiant and perhaps surpassing the beauty of the others, emerged to join her younger sisters. Her presence commanded the air, her eyes sparkling with an enigmatic grace. She pressed a purse of gold dinars into the porter’s palm, a sum far exceeding his earnings for an entire week.
“Your work is done, good man. The hour grows late, and the road back to the city is long.”
She paused, tilting her head with a faint, gracious smile.
“Yet the customs of this house bid us never let a guest depart without first asking: are you thirsty, or hungry?”
The porter lingered, spellbound by the trio’s unmatched beauty, the mansion’s lavish splendor, and the curious absence of any men. He boldly proposed they needed a fourth to complete their circle of joy, promising tales spun from the bazaar’s whispers, songs to rival the nightingale, and dances to stir the soul. The sisters exchanged glances, their eyes glinting with mischief, before Amira’s voice, smooth yet firm, decreed his stay for their entertainment.
“But hear this, porter,” she warned, her tone laced with menace, “obey our every command and speak not a word of this meeting to any soul, or great penalty will arrive upon you.”
He agreed eagerly, heedless of the warning.
Zara set a table by the courtyard fountain, arranging flowers and wine. The group, with the porter at the center, indulged in drinking, poetry, singing, and dancing. Bit by bit, he grew bolder, reciting verses, kissing hands, and playfully groping, while the ladies laughed and danced. The atmosphere was one of joyous abandon, and the porter felt as if in paradise.
Sophia rose and slowly approached the porter with measured grace. Straddling his lap, she pressed her warm chest against his, as if to easily feed him sweets. She tilted a goblet next, letting wine trickle over his mouth and down his chest. His breath hitched as she took his hand in hers and guided it between her thighs, pressing it firmly against the heated fabric over her mound.
“What lies hidden beneath?” she demanded sternly.
“Your pussy,” he tried.
Sophia gasped in pretended outrage, her free hand delivering a sharp slap to his cheek.
“How dare you speak such filth in this house!” she scolded, though a wicked gleam betrayed her amusement.
“Womb?” he ventured next.
A twist of his nipple made him wince.
“Sex?”
Another crisp slap rang out.
“You insult my honor with such crude words!”
He tried again, “Slit?”
A harder twist.
Finally, he begged for the name.
“The Basil of the Bridges,” she declared.
He whispered, “Blessed be thy Basil,” as she laughed and rose to get more wine.
Zara then began a slow, sensual dance before him, her hips swaying in languid circles as she hummed a sultry love song, like a whispered promise in the night. Her hands gathered the hem of her dress with deliberate grace, lifting it inch by inch: first to her knee, then higher to the soft inner thighs, the fabric grazing her skin as it rose, revealing the shadowed warmth beneath before letting it drift down again in a teasing caress. She lifted once more, even slower, exposing the delicate heat of her rosy folds for a breathless moment, only to release it with a soft sigh and a knowing smile.
Turning her back to him, she continued to sway her hips and, gathering the dress from behind, raised it languidly, baring the full roundness of her jiggling ass, cheeks parting slightly as she bent forward in a slow, deliberate arch, offering an intimate glimpse of her most hidden part, while glancing over her shoulder with eyes dark with playful desire.
“What’s her name, my darling?” she murmured breathlessly.
He ventured guesses like “cunt,” “pussy,” “vulva,” “hole,” and each met, as with her sister before her, with playful pinches to his cheek or ear, light nips on his shoulder, and her delighted, husky laughter as she twirled away briefly before returning closer. At last he begged for the true name.
She straightened slowly, let the dress fall like a lover’s touch, and declared with a merry, wicked wink,
“The Well of the Oasis.”
He laughed softly, “Blessed be the Well!”
Amira rose slowly, shedding her garments until naked, revealing her commanding presence, full lips parted in a sultry curve, perky breasts that quivered with each breath, and a voluptuous ass that swayed with deliberate allure, her pussy a soft, inviting bloom framed by delicate curls. The porter’s breath caught, his heart thundering with awe and desire at the sight of her unveiled beauty, a vision that seared itself into his soul.
She leapt into the pool, her curves glistening as water cascaded over her olive skin, each droplet tracing her form like a lover’s caress. She swam languidly, her movements slow and teasing, then emerged dripping, sitting on the porter’s lap. His heart raced, the lush, inviting warmth of her plum pussy igniting a fire in his veins, his mind consumed with the urge to kiss her full lips.
She asked coyly, “O my lord, what is this called?” gesturing between her thighs.
Flustered but eager, he replied, “Your cunt.”
She tugged his ear sharply, scolding, “Such vulgarity!”
He tried again: “Your womb.”
She yanked it firmly.
“Your vulva?”
A quick twist followed.
“Your hole?”
She jerked his ear again.
Desperate, he pleaded, “What is its name, O my mistress?”
She declared, “The Guest House.”
He sighed, “Blessed be that Guest House,” as she leaned closer, her full lips brushing his ear, laughing before dressing and pouring wine.
As the sisters reclined, their eyes blazed with a steady, knowing hunger, Amira’s commanding voice rose above the fountain’s murmur:
“O porter, come relax and wash in the pool.”
Her sisters nodded slowly, almost absently.
Heart pounding, he complied, shedding his worn garments to reveal a muscled frame, his broad shoulders glistening under the sun, his cock strong and erect, its veins pulsing with desire, the tip catching the light as water began to trickle over it.
He stepped into the pool, the warm water lapping against his chiseled chest and taut abdomen, each movement sending ripples that highlighted his powerful form. As he washed, his cock swayed with a teasing firmness, droplets clinging to his skin like jewels, drawing lazy gasps from the sisters, their cheeks barely flushing as they looked at him. Emboldened, the porter grinned and asked,
“O fair ladies, what is this called?” gesturing to his cock.
Sophia, the portress, licked her lips, venturing,
“The Stallion, because it runs wild with untamed vigor.”
He shook his head, smirking.
Zara, her breasts heaving with excitement, tried,
“The Spear, because it penetrates deep with relentless force.”
He chuckled, denying it.
Amira, with eyes resting on him with calm amusement, reached out and let one fingertip drift from the tip slowly to its base, like measuring it, and suggested:
“The Scepter, because it commands with authority all beneath it.”
He shook his head again.
The sisters, laughing at their failed guesses, demanded the true name.
Standing tall, water streaming down his frame, he declared grandly,
“This is the Mule that drinks from the Well of the Oasis, pastures on the Basil of the Bridges, and lodges in the Guest House.”
The ladies erupted in laughter laced with moans, collapsing in hysterics while their gazes devoured him.
Zara, still catching her breath from laughter, leaned close to the porter,
“You have been a rare delight tonight, witty, bold, and surprisingly entertaining. We’ve enjoyed you greatly. But the night deepens… perhaps it’s time you returned to your family and friends in the city, while it is still safe.”
The porter looked into her eyes and softly spoke,
“You are most kind, but why send me away when a sturdy mule stands ready to help carry any burden you and your sisters might have, so that your own tender strength need never be spent?”
Sophia’s lips curved into a slow, appreciative smile, and delighted laughter escaped both Zara and Amira. Sophia tilted her head, eyes sparkling with feigned innocence.
“Oh, what a generous mule,” she murmured.
Amira’s gaze lingered on him, warm yet unreadable, as she added softly,
“Such offers are… rare.”
The moment slipped away, and the sisters drew close, whispering like conspirators in the courtyard’s dappled shade, their flushed faces near, eyes darting between the porter’s erect cock and each other, their murmurs blending soft sighs with restrained longing. Their whispers were too low for him to catch, and he watched, heart racing as the heated glances promised a feast of pleasures.
Amira broke the huddle, her voice sultry:
“Oh, bold porter, we yearn, we burn to have our Well drunk deep, our Basil eaten, our Guest House warmly lodged with such a mighty mule. We three are virgins, pure as untouched dew, and this mule promises delights beyond our dreams. Yet, we are bound by sacred oaths to guard our chastity until marriage claims us.”
The porter’s face fell, his shoulders slumped, his ardor softening slightly, the sting of disappointment sharper than their slaps. He opened his mouth to protest, but Amira raised a hand, her eyes flashing with authority.
“Speak not, lest thou wound our honor. Come to the great hall, where we shall share wine, sweets, and a performance by our servant, to ease your flame.”
The porter followed, still disappointed by the turn of events, his mind lingering on the three beauties who had denied him so categorically. They led him to a grand hall, a vast chamber adorned with plush cushions, silken drapes, and flickering lamps casting golden glows. A door opened, and Natasha, a woman like none he had ever seen, entered. Her skin was like milk, her golden hair cascading, her eyes gleaming like emeralds, her full breasts swaying gently, her round hips moving with each step, a vision of sensuality crafted for delight. The porter thought her dance would surely compensate for his earlier disappointment.
But then Sophia approached Natasha, her finger gently caressing her lips to reveal a warm, inviting mouth:
“Behold, master, the Well of the Oasis, where thy mule may drink its fill.”
Zara’s hand parted the servant’s dress to expose her precious treasure:
“The Basil of the Bridges, ripe for the mule’s feast.”
Amira, cupping her firm cheeks, revealed her tight rear:
“The Guest House waits for the noble guest.”
Natasha reclined languorously on a mound of embroidered pillows, her legs parted, offering herself like a banquet of forbidden delights and signaling the porter to join her. The sisters, lounging on silken divans, sipped wine and watched with gleaming eyes, their breaths quickening as the performance began. He approached her, his gaze locked on her intimate warmth, as Zara leaned to whisper in his ear,
“O stubborn mule, taste the sweetest Basil, let it bloom beneath your touch!”
He knelt, his lips brushing her inner thighs, inhaling her heady scent, savoring its tender warmth. Natasha sighed softly, her hips arching to meet him, her fingers tracing his hair as he explored deeply, grazing like a beast in lush meadows. The sisters’ songs turned melodic, weaving tales of lovers lost in verdant fields, their hands grazing their own breasts in vicarious thrill.
Rising, his desire throbbing with need, he positioned himself and entered her, moving slowly at first, then with fervent rhythm, her warmth enveloping him tightly. Natasha’s soft moans filled the hall, her body swaying to meet each thrust, her breasts trembling with each motion.
Sophia, her voice husky, murmured,
“The mule seems parched; a sip from the Well will strengthen him!”
She guided Natasha to shift, presenting her mouth, the Well of the Oasis. The porter withdrew, his arousal slick and pulsing, and slid into her warm, wet mouth, Natasha’s tongue swirling like a desert spring, drawing a groan from his lips. The sisters’ song grew bolder, lyrics laced with innuendos of mules drinking deep, their fingers trailing lightly over his shoulders, urging,
“Go deep in that well, O mighty mule, the water is sweeter there.”
The porter pushed deep in her mouth, making her gasp and choke on it, then again, again, and again until Amira, her eyes blazing, urged restraint.
“Hold fast, O mule, for sweeter paths await!”
She beckoned him back to that dripping pussy, and he re-entered Natasha, thrusting with renewed passion, the hall echoing with her sighs. His climax built, and he spilled within her with a shuddering groan, his body trembling as he flooded the Basil of the Bridges, Natasha’s soft cries harmonizing with his. The sisters watched, their breaths heavy, offering him musk-scented sweets, Zara’s fingers lingering on his lips as she whispered,
“Well grazed, O mule, but roam the fields once more!”
They poured him a goblet of bittersweet wine, its rich depth and intoxicating aroma mingling with the hall’s musk, as they enveloped him with affection, hands caressing his chest. Amira led a bawdier song, its verses teasing of mules lodging in hidden houses, stoking his desire anew.
Sophia, noting his stirring cock, purred,
“Such a steadfast mule craves the Guest House’s embrace.”
She handed him a vial of scented oil with an intoxicating fragrance. He slicked his cock, approaching Natasha, who arched her back, presenting her tight hole.
Amira, her voice a sultry command, intoned,
“Open the doors, O mule, and lodge deep within!”
He eased into her, the oil smoothing his entry, moving with slow, deliberate thrusts, savoring the tight warmth. Natasha’s moans deepened, her body yielding as he drove deeper, the sisters’ song a low hum of forbidden nights, their hands grazing his back, urging,
“Lodge well, O strongest mule!”
He alternated between the two holes, thrusting into her center to rekindle his fire, then plunging back into her rear, each movement drawing louder sighs from Natasha. The sisters’ touches grew bolder, fingers trailing over his arms, their whispers,
“Drink, graze free, lodge deep!”, spurring him on.
He exploded deep within her trembling body with a raw, guttural groan, spilling himself in hot, endless pulses that left him shaking, drained, utterly spent. A soft, unnatural heat began to encircle him, slow, insidious, seeping into his veins like liquid honey laced with venom. It soothed and weighed upon him at once, turning his limbs to lead, his thoughts to syrup. His eyelids fluttered, heavy as if bound by invisible threads. Through the thickening haze, he could barely hear the sisters’ voices rising in a soft, chant-like song in a language he didn’t understand, until darkness folded over him completely.
“Oh my mighty King,” said Scheherazade, her voice low and measured as the first pale rays of dawn crept across the marble floor, “the morning is upon us, and with it comes the hour when my tale must pause.”
